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New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 15, 11 April 1901, Page 23

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The Spanish-looking traveller rubbed his gloved hands softly together, and nodded again significantly at the official. In her excitement she had forgotten that she did not really know the name of her husband's patient. All she did know was the name of the Elton hotel where Dr. Kenrick was accustomed to stop. Would a telegram there reach him in time 1 She wrung her slender hands in an agony of apprehension. The train had reached the station. The early winter twilight was beginning to fall as the conductor gave the clerk the telegram Margery bad dictated, addressed to the Elton hotel with instructions to forward the answer at once to Lethe. Tliun Oii .".itL .. shriek steamed the locomotive into the cold, grey shadows, fitting emblems of the chill darkness beginning to eetlle ltltuLlosaly duv.a upon one Wilful woman's troubled heart and life. She could no longer sit at her ease and dream her vain and eelfi-h dreams. A hectic spot burned in each of her fair cheeks as she paced up and down the narrow passage of the car, clenching her hands and biting her fevered lips till she looked, indeed, the mad, reckless creature she was so cruelly said to be. W.hat could all this terrible mystery be ? Who is this strange enemy who, even now, while affecting sleep in his chair, was watching her stealthily but closely through his half-opeu lids ? What was his object in playing out to its end this bold and hazardous game/ The conductor had lighted the lamp above his head, and Bhe scanned the dark face more narrowly. Surely she had seen before (and recently) those small, evil eyes, that expression of vengeful and trercherous hate ! Another face-— was it at Wyldewood / —dark also, and treacherous, but beardless. She shuddered, she began to sob passionately as the conviction of her own utter helplessness burst upoD her. Oh, why had she slighted the gentle mother's advice, and started alone on this fatal journey/ ' No matter what the consequences may be,' she had said in her bitter anger. And now she would have given every one of the precious jewels in her grasp to be back once more in the safe retreat of home, kneeling at Mrs. Ursula's feet in the warm, bright sittingroom, and listening gratefully to one of those grave, tender homilies bhe had so often dispised as tedious and impertinent. Like a cool, calm picture in the frame of her excited fancy, Bhe saw again in spirit the crucifix above the mantelshelf. The Madonna on the wali, and the sweet-faced old lady asleep by the fire in her h'gh-backed chair, the rosary shining in her withered hand. 1 Oh, Blessed Mother Mary !' Bhe prayed with an intensity of fervor never felt before, ' comfortresß of thei afflicted, refuge of sinners, hear and help your unworthy child !' A long, pharp whistle sounded on the frosty air. A. voice shouted ' Lethe !' The lights of the trim station loomed in view. The treeß slid past the windows like picture things on the slide of a magic lantern. There was a rattle, a grinding rumble, a jolt, which threw her against a hand which grasped and held her like a vice, and the train had fctopped at the dreadtd station. A faintness began to creep over her. Ah in a troubled dream, or under the oppression of a nightmare, Margery Kenrick felt that the supreme moment of her life had come. She sank into a s-eat, still in the grasp of that iron hand. The conductor's voice Beemed to come to her from some far-off depths as he beDt over her, 6aying : ' There is no answer to your teleerram, madam.' '1 lieu she was conbeious that another face, darker and more evil, lull ot a suppressed and hideous vengefulness, bent close to Ik r«. anil hissed at her through its clenched teeth a terribly significant echo 1 No answer to your telegram, madam I' In thit brief instant she recognised her foe. With a ringing shriek : ' Arnold, Arnold ! I know you at last 1' nho spring from the chair, tottered blindly forward, with her hand to lv r head, and fell prone in a dead faint at his feet. • Y-iu -cc she recognises me, poor dear!' said the dark gentleii! Ip, M>fily ; ' but she calls me by my brother's name. Arnold' — turning to his companion —'help me to support our afflicted darling to the (Mrnago. So ! It is better as it is —better as it is. Our Bad. t;»k lxc'isy while she remains insensible. Conductor, please put off tnis lady's trunk upon the platform and call yonder cab. Gently, gently ' —as they bore her carefully to the door. ' Here is hi r pretty little satchel. Sweet pet ! Slip it safely into the valise, Arnold. The cold air will soon revive her. Thanks, conductor. Now wo are all right.' And ula.sping to his breast the limp, inanimate mass of seal-'■kiii-i iind garnet silk, with the blonde head and the beautiful, deathlike face lying like a broken lily on his shoulder, the supposed l>r Ki'iirick hb.ut himself and his companions into the carriage in waiting, and was driven off, bag and baggage, down the dark road leaduij to the Lethe Asylum.

The g'ny Jawn of the Christmas morning stole int? a groundfloor chamber of a fine old mansion on the outskirts of Elton, wh« rein had, all night long, been fought a silent but desperate battle between Life and Beath. Life had conquered, but at such terrific odds that the grinning skeleton with the scythe seemed yet to linger by the bedsido, crying out in hollow tones : 'Your triumph is but short-lived!' as his ne.-hlcMp finger pointed jeering ly at the cadaverous face of the victor, lying spent and wasted among the pillows. The crisis of the disease was past, however, and the sick man had sunk into a profound and healing Blumber.

With a sigh of relief Dr. Lewis Kenrick arose from the chair of a sleepless vigil, and, with an assuring nod to the nurse, who had just returned to her post after a brief repose, he stepped noiselessly to the window and looked out upon the wintry town. It had snowed heavily in the night, but the dawn was clear and promising. The Christmas chimes were ringing merrily from the belfry of a church Borne blocks away. A rosy light was beginning to glow in the east, and a large, fair star hung tremblingly there, like a dying lamp. • Oh I star of Bethlehem ! sweet star of Bethlehem !' murmured the doctor softly under his breath; and just then a little child came gaily up the street, singing the dear old ' Adeste Fideles ' in a quavering little voice, very tender and touching to hear. Ihe doctor's eyes, so like his mothers brown and placid eyes. grew moist with unshed tears. He was a big, brave bearded man, with auburn hair and a fresh complexion ; strong, wise, and skilful, as became a master in his art, but at the same time gentle and pure and simple-hearted as a child. Looking up now into the cloudless expanse above him, with the tender prayer of Tennyson's ' St. Agnes,' ' Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are these frosty skies,' he made reverently upon himself the sign of the cross, and gave thanks to the great Physician for the life He had seen fit to give back to the sick man, that peaceful hour, through the ministry of His grateful servant's hands. Then he dropped the curtain and came back to the nurse. ' I am going now,' he said, in a quiet voice. 4 How long will this sleep last ?' questioned the woman, nodding towards the white face among the pillows. ' Possibly for hours. When he wakes give him the drops yonder and the beef-tea. All he needs now is careful feeding and nursing.' The nurse followed him into the hall. 1 Don't you want some breakfast, doctor, before you go .'' He shook his head. ' Not even a biscuit or a cup of coffee V 1 No. thank you, nurse. It is Christmas morning, remember. and I shan't break my fast for an hour yet, if I can help it.' The woman was an Irish Catholic. She Bmiled understandingly, and murmured a blessing on him as he passed down the stairs and out into the street. He walked briskly on, block after block, feeling how good it was, affer his long vigil in a close sick-room, to drink in deep draughts of that pure, ela&Uc air and crunch the fresh snow under his rapid tread. A flood of light and sacred song Buddenly poured on him from the open door of a church. He went in with the silent throng of worshippers hastening to one of the Aurora Masses. Near the entrance a priest in cassock and stole sat at a latticed screen hearing confessions. This was the opportunity Dr. Kenrick had desired. Grave and recollected, he knelt at once in the line of penitents. rich and poor, gentle and simple, reverently waiting alike their turn for holy absolution. How warm and bright and peaceful was the holly-wreathed House of God ! The pungent odor of the greens and the sweet aroma of the altar incense mingled gratefully together. ' How lovely are Thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts ' ' thought Dr. Kenrick. 'My 3oul longeth and fainteth for the courts of the Lord ! ' And then he fell to wishing most fervently that Margery, his young wife, were kneeling there at his side, sharing the solemn delights of that early Christmas morning. Pos-ibly, at the same time (he consoled himself with the thought) she and the dear old mother were adoring the Divine Babe of Bethleham in the little chapel at Wyldewood. ■ God bless and keep them both ! ' prayed the loving, tender heart. A half-hour passed. The great, bearded man knelt with the throng of devout communicants at the sacred rail, and, with tearful eyes, received from the hands of the priest that Incarnate God Whose altar &hall be unto the end of time truly a Bethlehem, truly a House of Bread — yea, of the Bread of Life which cometh down each day from Heaven I The sun was well up, and the earth rejoicing in her Christmas mantle of unspotted ermine, when Dr. Kenrick came out of the church and made his way to the Elton hotel for breakfast. He had finished his coffee, and was just about drawing towords him one of the morning papers when the office clerk approached him. • This came for yoi last evening," he said, 'but we did not know where to find you '; and he parsed on, leaving a telegram in Dr. Kenriek' s hand. Walking into the reading-room, the doctor tore open the envelope. He r^ad it at first mechanically, not taking in all its real meaning. Then, with a start and a shudder which shook his strong frame from head to foot, his eye ran wildly again over the mysterious message : 4 Margery I my wife — on the road to Olney — in danger ! ' fell in broken words from his lips. He crushed the paper in his nervous grasp, standing transfixed with astonishment and anguish. 4 Merciful Heaven ! what could it all mean / Was some one playing a trick on him ? Or had the child really persistsd in going to Olney without him, and had some misfortune He clapped his hand to his reeling head. The blood, surging to his temples, seemed to blind him. Unworthy as she was (it was one of those incongruities, so singular in their essence, so common in their daily occurrence), this grave, gentle noble-hearted man loved tenderly, devotedly, with all

the strength of his simple mature, the proud,passionate, frivolous girl who bore his name. And this woman whom he loved 1 Oh, pitying angels ! this wife of his bosom, his precious, golden-haired darling, had called to him for aid hours a<o, from the depths of some far-off, unknown peril, and no answer had been made to her wild appeal. Six — eight — ten hours ago — waa it now too late ? The cold sweat stood in great beads upon his brow ; but with a wordless prayer to God for help, for direction in this supreme emergency, Dr. Kenrick threw himself into a carriage at the hotel door, and waa borne rapidly away to j the rescue. * * • ' There go the church bells, Itosio, aoihore ! Isn't it sweet and beautiful they sound (glory be to God 1 ), and everything bo cold and dark and dismal about us ! It's Huaven's mercy it stopped snowin' afore midnight.' 1 You may well say that same, Peter Finnegan. Have you the lantern, man 1 Take care of that broken bit of wall by the outhouse, and hurry along, or it's late we'll be for the midnight Mass, I'm thinking.' ' Hark ! ' cried the man. ' What's that ? I hear a sound clo»e fey- ' Tut, tut ! ' returned his wife ; ' don't loither. Sure, it's only the the wind moaning through the little wood beyant. 1 ' It's no wind at all. at all, Rosie Finnegan.' disputed the lantern-bearer. ' It's a groan it is, as I'm a livin' man 1 Hist ! there it goes agin. Faix, it's the voice of a human craythur, and no mistake, and somebody's in disthress in the outhouse.' The worthy couple (who belonged to the force of hired help at the Lethe Insane Asylum, and were now making their way across its extensive grounds to midnight Mass at au adjoining church) pushed open the door of the outhouse and stepped in. Peter Finnegan flashed his lantern around the interior of the old shed, used for the storage of garden tools, and not far from the public road. He and his wife gave vent to a simultaneous cry of surprise and horror. Stripped of her outer garments, bound hand and foot to a rickety old bench, on which she lay at full length, they beheld, a beautiful fair-haired lady, who was moaning and shivering most piteously in the piercing cold of the December night. Her linen and underwear, they saw at a glance, were of the finest quality. Her lips were blue, her delicate features pinched and drawn, her face and hands as white and almost as cold as the snowdrifts which had blown in during the storm through the broken window of the shed, and lay, like tufts of ermine, upon her lovely hair. ' God save us 1' cried Peter, ' it's kilt the poor colleen is, entirely, with the black frost. And her as purty and shapely itself as a wax doll. Mebhe she's one of the craythurs from the house, yonder. She's give them the slip, and some villain of a tramp haa robbed her of her clothes. Lend a hand, Rosie, dear.' And in less time than it takes to tell it the good fellow had whipped out his pocket-knife and cut the cords which bound the unhappy stranger, and, with the aid of his strong-armed wife, waß bearing her across the s>nowy fi 'Ids to the a.svlutn. Poor Margery Kenrick ! Poor, wilhii Margery Kenrick ! ' How t hath the gold btcouio dim ; how ia the finest color changed " Cold, senseless, stripped of all the vain ornaments so precious to her heart, indebted for her very life to a poor Irish couple, whose services she would have scornwi in the heyday of her pride and passion, the haughty woman whom God had humbled was carried over the threshold of a madhouse, and welcomed, as a vagrant, to its walls. She was put to bed at once and restoratives applied. Before an hour had elapsed there was no crazier creature in that vast abode of crazy misery than the hapless wife of Dr. Lewis Kenrick, Delirium had supervened upon the exposure and horrors of that awful night. The white cheeks glowed, the blue eyes were brilliant with fever, as their owner tossed about her couch, crying aloud ever the same strange words . ' The stable of Bethlehem ! the stable of Bethlehem 1 Oh, how dark it is ! how cold it is ! Help, help, Lewis ! They have robbed me of my diamonds aud my furs I They have left me alone in the cold, dark stable of Bethlehem 1' If Arnold, the mulatto, could have stood that hour beside her bed of racking pain, and gazed upon the shattered wreck of the once proud and beautiful Margery Kenriek, even his desperate heart must have foregone any further satisfaction of his bitter revenge. But Arnold would cross her paih no more. Far, far away, hours ahead of pursuit and detection, making the best of their opportunities and their stolen treasures, the mulatto and his travelling companion (no other than hia disguised, wife Daphne) were afloat in a sailing vessel from the nearest port, bound for foreign shores. Late in the after no m of that eventful day a tall-bearded roan stole softly into the chauilx r where Margery Kenrick lay, with the ice-fillets bound about her burning brow. The nurse and the superintendent stepped aside in mute sympathy into the outer corridor, and Dr. Keurick bent alone over the suffering girl. As he listened to her pitiful ravings, her hot hand clasped in his, his broad chest heaved, and his eyes ran over with tender tears. He fell on his knees beside the bed, and gave vent to hia long pent-up emotion in a prayer of mingled thanksgiving and anguish. Praise bo to God ! the lost one was found I But alas, alas ! would the hungry grave even now yield up its threatened and trembling victim ?